


Abigail Prefers Two Ears and an Unblemished Throat

by LadyFelixTristis



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Abigail Hobbs Hates Hannibal Lecter, Abigail Hobbs Helps Herself, Abigail Hobbs Lives, Abigail and Will Are Bros, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crack Treated Seriously, Demisexual Will Graham, Fix-It, Gen, Hannibal (TV) Season/Series 01, Hannibal Lecter is Doomed, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, M/M, Revenge, Someone Helps Will Graham, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:48:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29258478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyFelixTristis/pseuds/LadyFelixTristis
Summary: “Hello?” A young woman’s voice, friendly but with a note of apprehension.“Is Mr. Garret Jacob Hobbs available?”“Sorry, wrong number!”ClickHe slowly lowers the handset to its cradle and looks at it bemusedly, eyes narrowed in thought. He hadn’t dialed incorrectly, had he?He lifts the handset and dials the number again. Same voice, this time less friendly.“Is Mr. Hobbs available?”“Wrong number!” The voice tainted by annoyance. No apology this time. Just theclick.Well. Not every experiment is a success, he supposes.---Abigail is back for revenge, and Hannibal has no idea who he's up against.
Relationships: Will Graham & Abigail Hobbs, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 16
Kudos: 198





	1. Chapter 1

“Hello?” A young woman’s voice, friendly but with a note of apprehension. 

“Is Mr. Garret Jacob Hobbs available?”

“Sorry, wrong number!” _Click_

He slowly lowers the handset to its cradle and looks at it bemusedly, eyes narrowed in thought. He hadn’t dialed incorrectly, had he? 

He lifts the handset and dials the number again. Same voice, this time less friendly.

“Is Mr. Hobbs available?”

“Wrong number!” The voice tainted by annoyance. No apology this time. Just the _click_.

Well. Not every experiment is a success, he supposes. He might still be able to nudge things in an interesting direction, eventually. For the moment, he returns to the outdoors and his fascinating new acquaintance. 

—

Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter stand in front of a low-slung stacked stone house on a working-class street. There is a disconcerting lack of sound. The plant life has gone dormant for the season. Their walk up the driveway and along the sidewalk to the entrance is as solemn as a funeral procession. 

Will’s knuckles barely have a chance to make contact with the dark-stained door before a slightly muffled “I’ve got it!” is audible from the other side. _Curious_ , Hannibal thinks. The voice on the phone had sounded just the same. Why would she have lied?

The door opens to reveal a girl with a striking resemblance to those missing. This is very likely the Golden Ticket. She briefly examines his and Will’s faces with a sort of dark intensity, then snakes her way around the barrier and onto the porch, followed by the soft _snick_ of the latch. She has shielded any view into the home’s interior from them, and any view of them from the interior.

Will’s expression darkens as he takes in the girl’s appearance, perhaps recalling Elise Nichols, the only victim he has seen in the flesh. 

The girl studies them, her face set, serious. “Look,” she says quietly. “You’re cops or something, right, here about the missing girls?”

Will looks mildly surprised. He nods once but Abigail does not truly seem to require a response. Neither Will or Hannibal has yet spoken a word. Her next communication is rushed, words pushed out and away, as if unwanted and unwelcome. “My dad’s the killer and he’s in there alone. I sent mom to the store after I got your call earlier so he can’t use her as a hostage or shield but be careful because he’s in the kitchen and there are knives.”

The _whoosh_ of a quickly-opening door punctuates the end of her warning, swinging wide directly behind the girl. Hobbs, it seems, is no longer in the kitchen; he is staring at them from the doorway with wide, troubled eyes and clenched jaw. Hannibal dearly hopes the man retrieved a knife on his way to greet them.

The girl gasps, bursting into motion. She rushes between Hannibal and Will, rudely elbowing them out of her way. Her father’s grasping hands reach after her but catch only air. She jumps off of the porch and runs into the yard, feet landing with solid _slaps_ against the frozen ground. She has wisely removed herself from easy reach. Hannibal mentally commends her tenacious will to live, and forgives the elbow to his ribs. He respects survival instinct.

Will had taken his firearm in hand almost immediately upon the door swinging open to reveal Hobbs, but it is not yet pointed at the man. Hobbs has no visible weapon and has made no overt threats, after all. But Will is visibly tense and ready. 

_(Will looks good with a gun. Hannibal generally finds them distasteful: hands are his favorite weapon, the blade a close second.)_

The girl stands firm on the patchy grass to call out to her father, whose mouth hangs open in shock. Dismay is written in the crumpled forehead and wet eyes. “It’s over, dad. Please don’t fight,” she begs. Her face is twisted in a sort of grief, the white of her teeth flashing as her lips tremble. “They found you and you’re going to be arrested, okay? But it’ll be fine. Just please don’t fight.” Her plea floats uncomfortably above the frozen ground between them, waiting for consideration.

The man in the doorway stands completely still. His unblinking eyes are filled with tears that do not spill over. “Abby?”

“Sir, I’m with the FBI,” Will says, the first words he’s spoken since approaching the house. “Hands up where I can see them,” he says firmly, clearly adopting a law enforcement persona. _His own?_ Hannibal wonders. _Or one empathetically borrowed from an old colleague?_ In an aside, he requests of Hannibal: “Watch my back, keep your eyes on the girl.”

Hannibal rearranges his position so he can watch both Will and the young woman. Abby. She’s fascinating. To immediately sense that a request for her father over the phone was in regards to a murder investigation. The fact that she clearly knows about her father’s hobby and presumably hasn’t reported him before now. And did Will catch her reference to the phone call?

Indecision flickers across Hobbs’ face. “Please, dad!” Abby implores. But the man’s stubborn expression suggests his final choice. 

His right hand disappears behind his back and returns with a knife. A substantial bowie knife with a carved bone handle. Hannibal suspects that it is human femur. _Delightful,_ he thinks. He would very much enjoy such a knife, if he wasn’t averse to keeping trophies less ephemeral than food for his belly.

To have come to the door armed with such a knife, Hobbs must have known or suspected that all was not well. His daughter had perhaps acted strangely, giving rise to nervousness. He may simply be the sort of paranoid that meant never being without a weapon, even in your safe spaces. Or possibly he feared for her safety when she never returned from answering the front door. Irony.

Will’s gun rises simultaneously with the knife’s appearance, aimed center mass. “Drop the weapon!” he demands, lips pulling back in a snarl, eyes shining and glorious. He makes the demand again and again without effect. The knife remains a threat.

Hannibal tenses involuntarily as Hobbs lunges, and Will opens fire. The men are close, and hitting Hobbs center mass isn’t difficult. 

BANG. Red blossoms in the lower right ribs. Hobbs jerks back.

BANG. More red, a gut shot. Hobbs arches forward, his free hand trying to clutch at his abdomen.

BANG. The chest, close enough to the heart to nick it. The man’s upper body jerks back again. His legs no longer carry him forward, beginning to buckle under him. His momentum leaves him toppling, the _crack_ of Hobbs’ head against the concrete almost as satisfying as the sound of a breaking bone. 

“I’ve already called 9-1-1,” Abby calls to them. Hannibal turns his face to regard her with some surprise. He’d completely forgotten to keep his eye on her as requested, mesmerized by Will’s performance. Her voice is shaky, but there are no tears in her eyes or on her cheeks. All he sees in her face is determination. 

“Thank you, Abby,” Hannibal says. 

“Abigail, please.”

“Abigail, then.” Hannibal approves of her formal name far more than the shortened form. 

Will’s gun is still trained on the dying serial killer, but he repositions himself so the daughter is in his line of sight. “Abigail? You mentioned our phone call. What did you mean by that?”

_Of course Will wouldn’t miss that._ Hannibal begins planning his explanation immediately.

“Um, that was you guys, wasn’t it? I mean, I recognize his voice and accent,” Abigail says, gesturing towards Hannibal. “Just asking for dad? Then calling a second time, same thing? I mean, he didn’t say much but I had hoped you would be coming soon, especially considering everything in the news. So I just assumed…” she trails off, looking unsure. 

Will’s sharp gaze finds Hannibal’s, and Hannibal knows they will be having a chat about this later. 

“Fine. You were aware of what your father was doing? Why didn’t you report it?”

She grimaces. “I did,” she says with incredulity thick in her voice. “Look, I’ll explain more later, but after a few of the girls I made friends with at college orientations turned up on the news as missing, I called the damned tip line with my concerns. I couldn’t try again after he told me that it was them or me, so I just hoped the FBI would follow up eventually. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

“Interesting,” Hannibal mutters to himself. 

“We’ll need to take you to the local offices for questioning, okay Abigail?” Will cuts in, ignoring her question. 

“Yes, fine,” she agrees. “What about my mom? She’ll probably be back in a few minutes.”

“Right. Yeah,” Will agrees, almost absently. “She’ll have to be questioned too. Anybody else in the house?”

Abigail shakes her head _no._

Will’s face is spattered with blood, and Hannibal finds the look quite fetching. His hand is trembling a little as he leans over the obviously dead Hobbs, quickly checking for a pulse and finding none. Assured that the threat has been neutralized, he holsters his gun. The ambulances choose that moment to arrive, the EMTs rushing towards Hobbs with their bags, gurney wheeled behind. 

They begin CPR, as expected. Nothing can be done for the man, but procedures must be followed. 

—

“You don’t understand,” Abigail says with absolute surety. “I warned them as much as I could. Look, I didn’t know what he was doing at first, okay? We’d just go on a trip to visit a college and he’d make a joke about how I shouldn’t worry about keeping an old man entertained, that I should go and make friends. So I did. I talked with some of the girls, and we exchanged names, numbers, addresses. And then _some of them started to go missing._ ” Abigail’s speech so far reads as frustration and exasperation. That could have multiple meanings. 

“Fine, then why didn’t you report your suspicions?”

Abigail scoffs and rolls her eyes like the teenager she very much is. “I did. I couldn’t go to the local police because dad was hunting buddies with half of the department. So I called the anonymous tip line and left his name and my suspicions. We can all see what came of that. But I tried to help while I waited for you guys to show up. I started warning them, the other girls, just in case I was right.”

Jack is clearly frustrated, though no longer with Abigail. Through the glass, Will can practically taste the dread Jack is feeling at the prospect of confirming Abigail’s story. If she really had called in a tip, and Hobbs’ name had been in the FBI’s possession for possibly months, some heads are going to roll. Jack’s demeanor has softened to some degree. “Warning them how?”

“My dad was usually close enough to hear my conversations held at normal speaking volume, so I’d start out with a normal conversation, exchange information. And then I’d lean in like I was confiding in them…”

—

Abigail ducked her head and spoke softly to the girl she hoped she would never see on the TV news. “Isn’t it scary how those girls have been going missing? They look just like us. If whatever sicko is taking them has a type, we’re it.”

Mirroring her posture and keeping her voice equally low, the other girl agreed. “I know, right?! It’s freaky.”

“I’ve started carrying pepper spray and one of those personal alarms you clip on your bag and when you pull it off it gives you a migraine instantly, you know what I mean?”

“Oh yeah, I actually have some pepper spray at home but I don’t carry it. That’s stupid of me, huh? Where did you get the alarm?”

“Online. You should really get one and start carrying that pepper spray. You know not to go anywhere alone either, right? It’s scary out there. We’ve gotta stick together.”

“Damn right we do,” the girl said with a grin. Abigail grinned back. 

—

“I _tried_ , and sometimes _it worked_.”

“How do you know it worked? And what did your father think about the whispering? Wasn’t he suspicious?”

“I told him that it was normal for girls our age to tell each other secrets and to not do that would make the others think I was really weird. He is, er, was, pretty clueless about teenage girls. Anyway, Dad came home one Friday night in a horrible mood…”

—

His eyes were a painful red. _Pepper spray_ she thought with satisfaction. Something on her face must have given her away, because in just a moment he was directly in front of her, grip tight on her arm almost to the point of pain. 

“Abby, baby,” he said. “You know I’m doing it for you, don’t you? I’m trying so hard, sweetheart, and this is the only way. I promise I’m honoring every part of them, just like I taught you. I don’t want to hurt you, Abby. Please don’t make me hurt you.”

—

“I thought he might kill me then, but I tried to pretend everything was normal and he calmed down. Another time, he came home angry again and couldn’t hear what I was saying until I raised my voice. I think that was from a personal alarm.”

“Any of your ‘new friends’ email or call you about somebody trying to attack them?”

“Of course not,” Abigail says with a look that makes it clear that she is coming to the realization that Jack Crawford knows even less about teenage girls than her father had. 

“ _Of course_ not? Why not? That’s the kind of thing someone would share with a new friend who helped save their life, isn’t it?“

“You exchange information on college tours to be nice. You almost never actually contact anybody you meet unless you actually end up at the same college.”

“And that’s normal?” Jack’s disbelief and suspicion is obvious.

“Obviously. I didn’t contact any of them, and none of them contacted me. And now they never will. I’m sure they talked to their real friends about it. Look, their info should still be in the notebook I carry in my messenger bag. Just get in touch with some of the ones who didn’t go missing. Ask them what we talked about. Some of them should remember.”

Jack nods at the mirror built into the wall, and Abigail assumes one of his minions has gone to do his bidding.

Abigail is slightly disappointed that she didn’t end up far enough back in time to save the lives of all the girls, but she’s grateful to have a second chance to influence the FBI’s view of her and save _her own_ life. And to have the chance for revenge against the one who murdered her. 

Hannibal Lecter. 

She doesn’t have to play games with him, this time. Everything will be out in the open. No secrets, aside from the time travel. Maybe he’ll kill her for some reason, but she’s so used to living under that constant threat that it hardly registers. 

And if he kills her, she will take him down with her. He had shared a lot with her during those months she was in hiding. Details about where he intended to live with her and Will. The places and things he wanted to show them. She even knew where the floor hatch to his murder basement was located.

She plans to write it all down, everything she knows about him and everything she’s guessed, and seal it it an envelope within an envelope. She’ll leave it with Dr. Bloom and beg her not to open it unless something happens to her, beg her not to tell _anyone_ about it. Dr. Bloom is a good person. She’ll think it’s weird, but she’ll humor her. And if she violates her privacy? Well, what are the paranoid ramblings of a teenage girl worth? She would probably just be in for extra therapy. Maybe another diagnosis. But anything was better than Hannibal getting away with murder. Because Dr. Bloom would _wonder_ if any of it was true. She would _doubt._

—

“Can we have, like, a small book club? Me, you, maybe Mr. Graham?”

Alana looks slightly amused. “Abigail…I think Will is a little too old for you.”

Abigail feels her face twist with slight disgust at the suggestion. “Yeah, he is way too old for me. But he seems really smart, and he’s been nice to me. You’re, like, the only person I know right now and you’re my doctor, not my friend. I just think he’s interesting and it would be nice to have another person to talk to.”

Abigail is seated facing Alana in her room at the inpatient psychiatric facility. Her mom, who had some kind of nervous breakdown upon arriving to a home swarming with police and a dead husband, is in another facility. Apparently it’s better for their recoveries if they work through their issues separately, aside from a joint counseling session once per week. None of which her mom has actually attended. 

Abigail tries not to blame her mom for refusing to attend. She does have a lot to work through, and fair or not, she blames Abigail to some extent for what happened. They haven’t seen each other in weeks. She can’t say she isn’t disappointed, though. Seeing her mom alive again after waking up in the past had been the single greatest gift she could ever have received. But for her own well-being, Abigail would rather not see her mom again until she stops blaming her daughter for the actions of the freakshow she married.

“Abigail, Will killed your dad,” Alana points out, tucking her hair behind her ear. Her earrings are practical hoops, white gold or silver maybe. 

“And my stupid dad killed a lot of girls, would have eventually killed me, and was about to attack him with a knife made out of a human leg bone. I can hardly blame him.” Besides, banishing any lingering affection for her dad had been the work of her last life. In this one, she’d done nothing but tolerate his presence and hope her acting was sufficient to keep him from killing her. 

“That’s a very logical way to look at it,” Alana says, though she flinched at the mention of the human bone knife.

Abigail shrugs, impatient. “Anyway, there’s this book published last November. I’ve really been looking forward to reading it, but I didn’t really know anybody interested in reading non-fiction back at home. It’s mental health related, so I thought you and Mr. Graham might like it too.”

“If that’s the case, why not invite Dr. Lecter as well?” 

Abigail is certain that Dr. Bloom means well, but she will never understand how anyone could actually trust Hannibal Lecter. How can you trust someone when nearly every one of their facial expressions rings a tiny bit false. When almost every smile feels just a little off. Hannibal’s a good actor, she’ll give him that, but she had never felt in any way comfortable with him. Then again, her experience was biased, wasn’t it? Her first interaction with him had been that phone call, warning her dad. Getting her mom killed. Nearly getting her killed.

She hated Hannibal more than she had ever hated anything.

“I don’t like him. I don’t trust his motives in calling my house before he and Mr. Graham came. Mr. Graham obviously didn’t know about it so I don’t think it was normal.” The sleeves of the shirt she’s wearing refuse to be pulled down over her hands when she fidgets, like she prefers. She wishes she had her own clothes. 

“It’s not uncommon to call witnesses before showing up at their homes, to make sure they’re available.” Dr. Bloom seems to become uncomfortable, shifting a bit and betraying slight worry in her expression. 

“My dad wasn’t a witness. He was a suspected serial killer. No way do they call suspected serial killers to make sure they’ll be home for a visit from the FBI. You can’t convince me otherwise.” _Plant the doubts in Dr. Bloom’s mind early,_ Abigail thinks. “And the look Mr. Graham gave him when I mentioned it - he wasn’t happy.”

“I’m not sure that Will was happy about anything that happened that day.”

“Yeah, well he was _especially_ unhappy about the dude tagging along trying to give the suspected serial killer warning of their arrival. He’s not stupid, and neither is Dr. Lecter. No one really believes that it was an honest mistake, do they?” Talking about Dr. Lecter’s manipulations leaves a sour taste on Abigail’s tongue.

“That’s a serious accusation, Abigail.” Alana shifts again and runs her hand across her thigh, fiddling with the side-seam of her dress. Abigail is certain now that Dr. Bloom is uncomfortable. She should be. No one should be comfortable when Hannibal is in any way involved.

“I just call it how I see it, Dr. Bloom,” she says solemnly. Switching back to a lighter topic, she asks “Do you think the three of us could read that book and talk about it?”

“We’ll talk more about your accusation later, Abigail.” She sighs, shoulders drooping. “But yes, I think we could do that. Which book is it?”

“It’s called Brain On Fire, written by Susannah Calahan. Can we read it soon?” Abigail tries to make her expression and voice read as ‘hopeful.’ She does truly hope for it, but it’s been a struggle lately to convey emotions. Much of the time, she feels numb. Dr. Bloom would probably call it a trauma response.

“I’ll talk to Will about it and pick up two or three copies depending on whether or not he agrees.” Alana offers the sweet half-smile that makes Abigail’s chest go a little fluttery.

“Thank you. Tell him it would mean a lot to me, please.” 

In another life, she’d held a lot of hostility for Will, though the man either never noticed or didn’t care. She probably wouldn’t have gone along with Hannibal’s plan to slice off her ear and take an uncomfortable amount of blood to frame Will if she had actually liked him. And she still wasn’t happy that Hannibal had killed her to punish him. If Will had just done what he was supposed to do, she wouldn’t have died. Not right then. 

But in the end, _being murdered and waking up back in time_ had offered unique perspective. Abigail wasn’t sure what was worse: being murdered by Hannibal, or having your psychiatrist in your head trying to craft you into a serial killer. Being dead was better than killing unknown numbers of other people. 

She was thankful that Dr. Bloom was kind to her, and had never used hypnotism or any other sketchy methods that might risk implanting terrible things into her subconscious. By the time Will’s encephalitis had been treated last time, he’d been suffering under Hannibal’s manipulations for months, and found himself imprisoned. He had been too out of his mind to suspect Hannibal until it was too late. She needed him suspicious much earlier.

The book, something that had come to her attention during her months in isolation when she was often alone with her tablet and unlimited ebook purchasing permission, was about the exact type of encephalitis currently plaguing Will. If reading it wasn’t enough to give Dr. Bloom and Will a big enough clue, they might be lost causes.

—

Alana feels uneasy about some of the things she and Abigail had discussed. She feels like she knows Hannibal fairly well after several years of friendship, and she doesn’t think he would have intentionally done anything to compromise the Shrike investigation. Calling a suspected serial killer is such a _dumb_ mistake, though, and Hannibal is anything but dumb. Then again, it was his first outing with the FBI. Maybe he genuinely misinterpreted the standard operating procedures?

She can’t imagine the FBI bringing him along on more investigations, though. A consultant displaying that degree of lack of common sense is a liability. It doesn’t mean he isn’t a great psychiatrist. Just not the right fit for the FBI.

Tasting blood, she realizes that she has worried open a crack in her lower lip. Chewing on her lip is a habit she thought she’d long since trained herself out of.

She needs to talk to Will. She needs to ask for a detailed accounting of his side of the story.

—

“I don’t know, Alana. He’s a good sounding board. Knows which questions to ask to get me thinking in the right direction. But that phone call.” He shakes his head in disgust, curly hair bobbing with the motion. “When I thought back on it, recreated in my mind the period of time he must have used to make the call, something wasn’t right. He was acting deceptively. I think he intentionally dropped a bunch of files to keep me and the secretary busy outside so he could make the call inside. That doesn’t say ‘honest mistake’ to me. Does it to you?”

“No.” Alana’s brows are creased and she is chewing on her lower lip, lapping at the blood. _An old habit that comes out when she’s stressed,_ Will thinks.

“I don’t know what his ultimate intent was, but he knew he wasn’t supposed to do what he did. He hid it from me, and he blocked the number when he made the call. If he thought he was following procedure, he would have called from one of our cell phones from the car, on the way to the house. If Abigail hadn’t been waiting for something to happen, if she’d handed the phone to her dad, she and her mom might be dead right now.” The thought sends a sharp pain through his chest. Hobbs’ feelings towards his daughter might have been unnatural, but Will had inevitably empathized with the man’s love for her, and some of those feelings continued to cling to his mind.

“We should talk to Jack about this,” Alana admits. “Hannibal is a dear friend. I have for many years trusted him implicitly, but that’s not a valid excuse to keep potentially relevant information to myself. It would be unprofessional to allow my personal feelings for someone to interfere with reporting objective facts.”

Will sighs, feeling Alana’s distress clawing at his chest. “I don’t think he was the Shrike’s accomplice, Alana, but his explanation for his behavior doesn’t track.” He pauses, thinking. “I agree, let’s go talk to Jack. The call should be more than an overlooked footnote in the case file.”

On the way to Jack’s office, Alana passes along Abigail’s request to read a book and talk about it together.

“Her request caught me slightly off guard,” Alana admits. “But it might be beneficial to her recovery to have a group discussion that isn’t specifically about her own mental health. Looking at the effects of mental health symptoms on someone else’s life might offer some degree of objectivity when examining her own thought processes and reactions.”

“Yeah,” Will agrees. He doesn’t know Abigail that well, but has a soft spot for her. Even ignoring the misplaced web of fatherly love still clinging to his mind, how could he not care? Having been directly involved in an event that caused her such trauma, it was inevitable that his empathy created a closeness to her in his mind, more than might be considered normal. 

Her reactions that day had been strange and he was still working out what it all meant, but she wasn’t a murderer. She was a victim who unwittingly and then by force helped select other victims for her father. It was a horrible situation to have been put into, and she would no doubt be dealing with the emotional fallout for the rest of her life. He would help her if he could.

“Yeah?”

“Just, let me know which book?”

“I’ll do you one better,” she says, pulling a copy out of her bag. “I passed by a bookstore on my way here and thought I could just return one copy if you weren’t interested.”

Will smiles softly and Alana returns it. “Thanks, Alana. I’ll try to read it this week, if Jack doesn’t pull me into another case.”

—

Jack regretfully creates a file for Hannibal Lecter and submits a report regarding his behavior and actions in placing a blocked telephone call to a suspect’s house after allegedly ensuring that he would be alone in the room, fully aware that he and Will were on their way to question a suspected serial killer. 

Jack likes the talented doctor and is grateful to have been welcomed to his table. He is a joy to converse with, and the most polite and genteel man Jack has had the pleasure of becoming acquainted with. 

But Will and Alana are correct. His excuse, that he believed calling to ensure the person they meant to interview was home was standard procedure, did not match his behavior. His behavior was suspicious. 

The file doesn’t mean anything if Hannibal doesn’t do anything else suspicious, and the man need never know about its existence. But it’s important to have a paper trail in case something else _does_ happen. Jack might bend rules sometimes, but not about things like this.

He will also think twice of inviting Dr. Lecter into an investigation, again. He does have assistance from Heimlich and Bloom, after all. And he really should find another full-time profiler for his team. Administrative tasks take up too much of his brain space these days for his own profiling work to be effective, and his team has suffered for it. Bringing Will and other consultants in part-time has patched the hole temporarily, but it isn’t a permanent solution. The team is supposed to be able to profile killers, but the amount of profiling being done by the non-consultant members of his team is pathetic.

As for Dr. Lecter’s doctor-patient relationship with Will, it’s up to Will whether or not he wants to continue therapy with the man or find another psychiatrist. As long as he has some kind of professional support, Jack can sleep better at night. And Will knows now to be cautious with Dr. Lecter. If the other man does anything else weird, he’ll have been watching for it. 

—

Abigail sighs. She finished the book already, and hopefully Dr. Bloom and Will finish soon so they can talk about it before Will’s encephalitis symptoms get really bad. He’s no good to anyone in the crazy house, and if she has to, she’ll beg and cry at him until he goes to the emergency room for an MRI instead of _letting Hannibal make him an appointment like an idiot_. Sometimes being a teenage girl is useful. Her hormones make her _so emotionally unstable_ that she can get away with things someone older couldn’t.

And then she’ll go to his house and steal all the fishing flies, maybe, and throw them in a river or something. She doesn’t know what Hannibal’s plans are this time - it’s an unfortunate consequence of drastically changing a timeline - but she’ll do as much as she can. She’ll plant as many seeds of doubt as she can. She’ll make observations that might turn out to be very inconvenient for Hannibal. 

Maybe she’ll even point out that the Chesapeake Ripper is a cannibal. It won’t even be weird coming from her, since she was supposedly an unwitting cannibal for months. 

She flips back to the beginning of the book and starts to re-read, with nothing better to do until another group session in about an hour. Unfortunately, her task is interrupted by her door opening. She recognizes the man. She had been unconscious last time, but she’d seen his picture. It’s the guy who wanted to bury her as mushroom food.

“HELP! FIRE! INTRUDER!” she immediately starts yelling as loud as possible. She jumps off of her bed so it is between them, and continues to yell. “HELP! SOMEONE! HE’S GOT A GUN!” She can’t remember if he has a gun, but he has a syringe with a needle in it and she’s guessing he means to use it on her. 

The good thing about this inpatient psychiatric facility is that many of the attendants are skilled at tackling and restraining crazy people, and that’s exactly what happens. 

“He’s got a needle!” She warns. “Don’t let him stick you!”

Mushroom-dude’s wrist is slammed against the floor several times until he drops the syringe and it rolls away. He struggles wildly, and he looks pretty strong, but he’s no match for the two burly dudes on his back. Another attendant approaches and jabs him with a dose of whatever they use on out-of-control patients, and the mushroom man finally relaxes. 

One of the attendants looks at her. “You said he had a gun?”

“I don’t know if he does or not,” she admits. “Just thought it would get you guys here faster.”

He smirks. “Smart girl.”

_Well, this has been exciting,_ she thinks. _And Will didn’t have to shoot him this time. Probably better for his mental health._

—

It’s only a few minutes later that Will comes tearing into the facility, demanding Abigail’s whereabouts. 

“I’m over here,” Abigail calls from a table near a window. She has relocated into the common area since her room is technically, but only just barely, a crime scene. 

Will’s relief is palpable, but he is still extremely tense. “Abigail, have you seen a man? He’s coming here—”

“Yeah don’t worry, he’s straitjacketed in a padded room, nobody got hurt.”

Much of the tension drains from his frame. “He’s, padded…okay. You’re okay? Nobody’s hurt?”

“Nobody,” she agrees, and points at the chair across from her.

He collapses into it. “Police on their way, then?”

“Yep,” she says. “The guys here are trained to restrain crazy people, you know.”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to call mentally ill people crazy,” Will observes.

“I’m a patient here, so I’m allowed. It’s only mean when people without mental health issues call people who do have them ‘crazy.’ But I have PTSD at the very least, so I can say I’m crazy and they’re crazy,” she gestures at the others in the room, “and it’s just whatever. I mean, I don’t say it to anyone’s face. It does bother some of us. But ‘crazy’ is so much easier to say than ‘mentally ill.’ We’re taking it back. Like…what’s a good example? Ah, like queer people taking back ‘queer.’ It’s so much easier to say than GLBTQ plus all the other letters, and it kinda covers the whole community.”

Will huffs, but he’s smiling. He pulls out his phone and speed-dials someone. “Jack. He’s here, but the staff subdued him and locked him in a padded room. Everybody is fine. Yes, I’m serious. No, you know this place isn’t for criminally insane. Yes, I know you were joking. Okay.” He ends the call.

“Have you read the book yet?” she asks.

“Half of it,” he nods. “Hitting a little too close to home, if I’m honest.” He clenches his jaw, then grimaces. “But Dr. Lecter says my problems are from stress, so.”

“Do you think you can trust him completely?” Abigail wonders. “You know the phone call thing was sketchy. You should really consider getting a second opinion.” He is still grimacing. “Just a casual conversation with Dr. Bloom, even. Tell her about your symptoms.”

“I don’t really want her to think of me as…crazy,” he admits.

“No offense,” Abigail says, “But if it’s because you have a crush on her—you should really get over that. You’re the last person who should be in a relationship with a psychiatrist, don’t you think? Maybe someone nice and quirky and not obsessed with people’s minds. Like Jimmy, from the lab. He’s funny and he likes weird stuff like you do.”

Will throws his head back and laughs. “That’s. Okay, let’s not talk about my love life.” Under his breath, Abigail hears him say “Jimmy? Really?”

“It’s okay to be gay, you know, Or bisexual. Or pansexual. Or whatever. It’s okay to be queer. It’s totally normal.”

“I’m not…yeah, I know it’s normal Abigail. But.”

“For example, as far as I can tell I’m either not attracted to anybody, which is asexual, or I’m only attracted to people I really care about, which is demisexual. I don’t know yet because I don’t care enough about anybody to know if I can be attracted to them.”

“Huh,” Will says. “Maybe…”

“Yep, thought so,” Abigail nods. “Anyway, get a second opinion from Dr. Bloom or literally anybody who isn’t Hannibal. And preferably isn’t friends with Hannibal, though Dr. Bloom gets a pass. And don’t tell him I’m talking about him, because he reminds me of my dad and I’m afraid he’ll kill me.”

Will’s face turns serious. “Are you really afraid of him, Abigail? We can put him on the list of people who can’t visit you.”

“Not sure,” she admits. “I think making it obvious that I don’t like him might make him more likely to kill me.”

Will seems troubled. “This isn’t humor. You genuinely think he might kill you.”

She shrugs, feeling awkward. “Like I said, he reminds me of my dad. Same vibes. I don’t trust him, but I think if I keep telling people that, he’ll decide my entertainment value is no longer worth the trouble.”

“I haven’t told him anything you’ve said to me, Abigail. I don’t think Alana has, either. I don’t know if you’re right about him but I keep your confidences.”

Abigail hadn’t expected that. She thought Will talked everything over with Hannibal. Maybe not this time. 

“Thank you Will. That means a lot to me.”

“I want you safe, Abigail. I’m not any kind of father figure, but if I’d had a little sister, I would have liked her to be like you.”

That’s actually _really_ touching, Abigail thinks. Her eyes begin to water. “I feel the same,” she says. “If I’d had a big brother, I would have liked him to be like you.” _And if I’d had a big brother, my dad might not have gotten so obsessed with me and started killing those other girls. In another world, maybe._

“I’ll think about getting a second opinion. Maybe if I get any worse.”

—

“Alana? Do you have a minute?”

“Of course, Will. Take a seat. How are you doing after the Lost Boys case? I can’t imagine this new one is any better.”

“Yeah, about that. I woke up on the roof yesterday morning. I was sleepwalking.”

“Oh gods, Will, I assume you woke up in time since you aren’t wearing a cast. How are you feeling now?”

“I’ve had this awful headache for weeks, now. And I’ve been feverish sometimes. And I’ve had some hallucinations. Hannibal told me it’s all just stress, but Abigail suggested I talk to you for a second opinion.”

Alana’s face looks grave. “She was right to, Will. Attributing those symptoms to stress is…well. Let’s just say, it’s best to rule out physical causes before making assumptions. Let’s take a trip to Johns Hopkins, shall we? The emergency department will absolutely order scans, and I might be able to pull a few strings with some acquaintances to get your scans reviewed by someone I trust.”

“Right now?” Will looks slightly alarmed.

Alana looks at the clock, which seems to remind her of something. “Will, have you finished the book?”

“Not yet, no. Is it relevant?”

“Humor me,” she says. “Draw me a clock.” 

—

“He’ll be fine, but Will is in the hospital,” Alana tells Abigail the next day. “It’s an incredible coincidence, but they think it might be the same rare kind of encephalitis the author of that book you suggested suffered from. They’re waiting on tests to make sure, but they’ve started him on medications and he’s already showing improvement. He gave me permission to tell you all of this.”

“Wow,” Abigail says, outwardly concerned but internally thrilled. “That’s really strange. But you said he’ll be okay?”

Alana nods. “It’s relatively early in the progression of observable symptoms, so he shouldn’t suffer long-term consequences, if treatment goes well. He’ll be in the hospital for at least a few weeks, though.” 

“Well, thank goodness they caught it so early. Who is going to look after his dogs?”

“I’m going to take them home with me, actually. They’re good dogs, and they shouldn’t be stuck in an empty house or a boarding kennel for weeks.”

“Oh, that’s so nice of you. You think maybe you should put up some security cameras around his place since his dog security system will be absent? I know he lives in the country and everything, but working for the FBI, there might be some people who want to vandalize his house or something stupid like that.”

“That’s an idea,” Alana says with obvious reluctance. “I doubt Will wants anybody to monitor his own movements, though.”

“So? Tell him to turn it off when he’s home. But honestly, someone Freddie Lounds likes to accuse of being a murderer could probably benefit from solid proof that he really is just a professor who likes dogs and fishing. Alibis are good.”

“Interesting. Maybe I’ll talk to him about it.”

“Can I visit him in the hospital?” Abigail has been very good. She hasn’t climbed the wall or sneaked out by any other method. She attends group sessions. She’s open with Dr. Bloom and cooperative with the FBI. She’s earned some privileges, in her not-unbiased opinion. 

“I think we can arrange that, Abigail.” Alana’s smile is fond. “Maybe when he’s awake more often than he is now. He’s sleeping through a lot of this early treatment.”

“Thanks, Dr. Bloom,” Abigail agrees with a genuine smile.

—

“Bev,” Will greets the woman standing awkwardly in the hospital doorway. She looks good, like she maybe got a few nights of sleep. 

“Will. How are you feeling?”

“Getting there. How are you feeling?”

She laughs. “Getting there. We closed the Angel Maker case. Jack was furious when you bailed.”

“Is it bailing when you have a medical emergency?”

“I think the only excuse Jack would accept is death. You don’t look dead. Not excused.”

“Yeah? Well, fuck that guy.”

She throws back her head and laughs at the ceiling. “Fair. Seriously, though, you look a lot better. I’m sorry none of us realized you were sick.”

“Not your fault. Not even Doctor Lecter noticed I was sick. I only took it to Alana because a teenager insisted I get a second opinion.”

Beverly nods. “Second opinions are always a good idea when symptoms are serious. My sister suddenly started having splitting headaches. Doc called them migraines and said she’d be fine with some Tylenol. Later, when I checked her records, he’d written down that she was drug seeking.”

“Wow. Guess he didn’t take his oath too seriously. Your sister okay?”

“She is now, kind of. Not getting any worse, at least. Encephalitis, like you. Viral, though. She recovered, but because of the delay in treatment she’s stuck with seizures, memory problems, and mood swings. Encephalitis is serious stuff, man.”

Will is suddenly struck by how badly everything might have turned out for him if Abigail hadn’t intervened. If he’d gone on thinking that his symptoms were caused by stress and trauma. If his insecurities had allowed him to fully accept that explanation because his greatest fear had always been losing his mind. 

If he’d learned anything from this mess, it was that he should look into physical causes for illness even if a psychiatrist insisted everything was in his head. _Shouldn’t have even needed that lesson_ , he thinks. _I’ve never trusted a psychiatrist and never will._

His empathy disorder made him _different_ , made it hard for him to separate his wants and needs from the wants and needs of those he empathized with. But it had never caused the kinds of symptoms he’d been experiencing recently. Fevers. Headaches. He felt stupid for wanting to trust Doctor Lecter when objective evidence said the man couldn’t be trusted. 

—

“Doctor Lecter,” Will greets his not-psychiatrist as the other man enters his hospital room. The expression on his face is regretful.

It is the first time Will has been awake for one of Hannibal’s visits to his hospital room, though the man has kindly left him soups and herbal teas. The treatment takes a lot out of him, and he spent much of the first several days asleep. 

“Will. I feel I have failed you,” he says, explaining the regret on his face. “I should have detected this sooner. I should have recognized the symptoms and scheduled an appointment for you with a neurologist. That I missed such a serious illness is unconscionable.” 

Will kind of agrees, but “What is it they say? Don’t cry over spilt milk? It was caught in time, and I didn’t hurt myself or anyone else while I was out of my mind, so no harm done. I don’t hold it against you, Doctor Lecter.” A lie.

“Hannibal please, if you would do me the honor,” he requests, lips tight with displeasure and eyebrows warped from distress. “Would you join me?” He asks, holding aloft an insulated food bag that probably contains more soup.

“Of course,” he agrees to both questions, though secretly he thinks he’ll end up calling the doctor by his title and surname more often than not. “So, how’s everything going out there in the real world?”

Hannibal passes him a glass container and a spoon. The soup smells wonderful, as always.

“As they say, ‘Make the best use of what’s in your power and take the rest as it happens.’ Business as usual. I believe the FBI caught your Angel Maker.”

“Not _my_ Angel Maker.” Will eats a spoonful and closes his eyes in pleasure. Hannibal watches him as he also partakes.

“Indeed not, my apologies. I’m afraid I know only the information available through the media.”

“Same,” Will admits. “I heard about it from Bev but didn’t ask any questions, and she didn’t volunteer details.”

Hannibal hums. “Pity. I enjoy discussing cases with you.”

“I’m not sure how many more cases I’ll have to discuss, to be honest. I’m thinking about stepping back from the field. At least for a while. They tell me recovery can take months or more.”

“Oh? You were very stubborn about continuing in that line of work.”

“Yeah well, I finally realized that my life is important to me.”

“Good. It’s good to see you more confident, Will. You mean a great deal to me, and I feel joyful that you have realized your worth.”

“Thanks, uh, Hannibal. That means a lot.” He has reached the bottom of the container so he seals his bottom lip along the corner rim of the square dish and tilts his head back, pouring the dregs onto his tongue. “Sorry,” he says with a sheepish grin once he’s done. “Too good to waste.”

Hannibal looks charmed, a soft smile gracing his face. 

Will swallows. He has only lately realized what an attractive man Doctor Lecter is. Even in his ridiculous 3-piece plaid suits, he’s the most attractive man Will can think of in his current state of mind.

Which is a little bit high on pain meds. But he’s been doing a great job of hiding it so far, in his biased opinion. 

“Thank you, Hannibal. That was delicious.”

“You’re very welcome, Will. I am happy to provide you nourishment. It’s the least I can do.”

“You mean a lot to me too, Hannibal. I didn’t mention it before. But you’re really important to me.”

“I appreciate you saying so, Will.”

“You’re beautiful,” Will admits on a sigh. _What am I doing?_ he asks himself.

Hannibal looks surprised, but not displeased. “I think much the same of you, Will. You are among the most aesthetically pleasing individuals I have ever encountered.”

Will translates that in his head. “Okay,” he accepts. “Thank you.”

Hannibal’s expression is curious. He places his soup container on the side table, then leans forward towards Will. “I wonder,” he says. “Would you mind if I were to…”

Will feels breathless, but this time the symptom is definitely caused by his mind. “Please,” he says.

Hannibal smoothly stands from the guest chair, still leaning towards Will, until their faces are a hands-width apart. Will can only concentrate on Hannibal’s lips until the man tilts his face and flutters his lashes. Will’s eyes are drawn to the movement, and meet the darkness of Hannibal’s gaze.

Will waits, mouth parted. Hannibal’s pink tongue appears to moisten his own lips before he leans the last several inches and touches them to Will’s.

Despite the simplicity of their kiss, the sensation zings through Will and causes him to gasp and press forward. Hannibal’s lips are soft, caressing Will’s own with gentleness that Will is not interested in at the moment. He bites Hannibal’s lower lip, making him flinch and hiss, and Will smiles. 

Will opens his mouth and finds Hannibal’s tongue with his own. He lifts the hand not bound by tubes and wraps his fingers and thumb around the side of Hannibal’s throat, squeezing a little, feeling the man’s pulse against his palm.

Hannibal’s fingers lace into his curls and tug them as his mouth moves to Will’s neck, sucking and licking the skin there and causing Will’s libido to skyrocket. 

That’s when Will’s heart monitor alarm begins to chime.

Will huffs as Hannibal pulls back regretfully and a nurse pops her head in to check on him.

“I’m okay,” he assures her. “We were just, uh.” Her gaze finds their swollen lips, Hannibal’s mussed collar, and Will’s fluffed hair. She grins. “No worries. Just nothing too strenuous, okay?”

She clicks off the alarm, but watches the monitor as his heart rate falls into normal levels. Satisfied, she nods at them both and exits the room, closing the door softly behind her. 

“Well. That was a little embarrassing. Sorry Hannibal,” Will says with an unrepentant grin. 

Hannibal smiles with his eyes. “Perhaps once you are well enough to leave the hospital, you would do me the honor of joining me for dinner?”


	2. Chapter 2

He hadn’t expected romantic interest, but he can see the potential benefits immediately. To continue with his plan to incarcerate Will would bring Will’s resentment. Besides, that plan has already been run off the rails by Will’s premature hospitalization. He will be much harder to frame without encephalitis shattering his judgment and stability.

Perhaps encouraging Will to fall in love with him, tying them together in that way, will turn Will’s loyalties to Hannibal instead of the FBI. 

The plan is quickly developing in his mind. It will have to do. It is his best chance to keep both Will and his freedom.

And Hannibal has always found pleasure in the human body in all its forms. He has long admired Will’s beauty. He does not presently feel any romantic attachment to Will, but he does have fondness for the man, and bedding him will hardly be a chore.

Just kissing Will made Hannibal half-hard. No, bedding him will be no chore at all.

—

“Hannibal kissed me,” Will says with bemusement.

_”He did?”_ Abigail almost-shrieks. Will just nods. He looks tired and pale, leaning back against the hospital sheets. But he looks a lot better than he had been before checking into the hospital.

“Did you _kiss him back?_ ” Abigail wants to know. Hannibal’s plans have evidently changed. Is Will weak to his charms, or can she keep him skeptical?

“I. Uh. Well…yes,” he admits. 

“Huh,” Abigail huffs. “Does that mean you trust him, now?”

“No,” Will says with certainty. “I trust him even less now that I can think with a properly functioning brain. As properly functioning as it ever gets, anyway.”

“Okaaay. Are you going to, uh, be boyfriends or something? I’ve heard that trust is important in relationships?”

“I’ve heard that too,” he agrees. “He’s just…he’s really attractive, isn’t he?”

“His face looks like a skull.”

“After you reminded me about demisexuality, I thought about it, and I guess I must like him quite a bit even if I can’t trust him, because he’s the first non-Alana person I’ve been attracted to in years.”

“Uh huh.”

“I don’t know what to do, Abigail. He’s so sketchy, but I’m only a man. I feel weak. And _he’s_ very much _a man_ , if you know what I mean.”

“What the hell, Will? What drugs are you on?!”

“Oh, I dunno,” he admits. 

“I’m mad at Hannibal for a lot of reasons, but today I’m mad at him for taking advantage of you while you’re inhibitions are, like, totally absent.”

“Don’t be mad, Abby,” he says, his eyes watery. “It’s my fault. I tried to be so normal while he was here so he probably didn’t know I was high. I won’t sleep with him if you don’t want me to.”

“ _Oh my god_ , don’t cry. Seriously, Will, you’re being weird. And you might have to sleep with him if we don’t want him to suspect that we’re on to him. Not that I think you should prostitute yourself or anything, but you might have to, um. Take one for the team?”

“Oh, I don’t mind at all. I’ll enjoy it. Don’t worry.” Will’s tears are evaporating and he is gazing into the middle-distance, dreamily. 

_”Are you in love with him?!”_

“I don’t think so? But I like him. I really like him.”

“Will, this is important. If you find out that Hannibal is a cannibalistic serial killer, will you run away with him or will you turn him in to the FBI?”

“ _Cannibalistic_ …you can’t just ask me something like that Abigail. And of course I’d turn him in to the FBI. I don’t like him enough to sanction murder. What kind of question is that?”

“I hope that means he hasn’t had time to brainwash you in your therapy sessions,” she says, nodding. 

“Brainwash? Abigail, where are you getting all of this?”

“Just, if he suggests therapy involving lights or any kind of hypnosis, decline. Please.”

“Fine. But you owe me an explanation. Where’s all this coming from?”

“Okay, here’s the thing, Will. Hannibal is stupid or something because he’s been bringing me lunch some days and either wanted to see my reaction or forgot about how I was accidentally a cannibal for quite a few months. Because I swear to the sky gods, the meat in that dish was _human_. If anyone would know, I would know. Do you believe me?”

“I…believe that you believe it was human.”

“Do you believe it enough to very carefully pocket samples of the meat he serves you during your apparently-inevitable _dates_ , without him noticing, and have the samples tested at the FBI lab?”

“For the love of…I tell you that Hannibal kissed me and I like him, and you drop this on me? Why are you being so mean?”

“You’re right,” she agrees. “Don’t pocket the meat. He’ll definitely notice and then he’ll probably murder you. Next time I have a meal with him, I’ll swallow some pieces of meat whole and try to regurgitate them once he leaves. Hopefully my stomach acid won’t compromise the samples too much.”

“Abigail.” Will’s face looks pained.

“I need you alive and as safe as possible, Will. We’ve adopted each other as siblings, right? If Hannibal makes you happy, I won’t do anything to get in the way of that, as long as you realize that he’ll be imprisoned in the near future and your dates will then have to take place in the visitors section of a prison. Hey, if you get married as soon as possible, you could probably qualify for conjugal visits.”

“Abigail.” His voice is a little bit stern, now.

“I hope you think this is all a dream once your drugs wear off,” Abigail admits. “Then you’ll be suspicious about him but I won’t have to answer for anything I’ve said today.”

Will barks a laugh, then groans. “I don’t know what’s happening right now, Abigail. This is the strangest conversation I’ve had in my life. Why is the man I like a serial killer? I mean, _you’re right_ , how could anybody but a serial killer be interested in me? And who would I be interested in except a serial killer? Is Alana one too? Why is this happening to me, Abigail?”

“Just lucky, I guess. Sorry. Life sucks. But at least we’re both alive at the moment?”

“At the moment. Let’s keep it that way. I’m going to take these suspicions to…fuck. Not Jack. He’s compromised. He’s at Hannibal’s for dinner every week. Also, I’m high. And I have encephalitis. Probably none of this is real. I should just go back to sleep.”

“If you remind him of Miriam Lass, he might be willing to overlook his friendship with her abductor to bring him to justice.”

“Miriam La— Abigail, are you implying that Hannibal is the Chesapeake Ripper?”

“Who else could he be?” Abigail points out. “Look at Hannibal. How fussy he is. What serial killer could he possibly be if not the Ripper? And remember the cannibal part? What do you think the Ripper is doing with all of those organs and bits of bodies? Kindly donating them to transplant patients?”

“Jesu— fuck. Goddamn it.” He blindly flails his hand around the side table in search of the phone, brings it to him, lifts the receiver, and begins to dial. At the fifth number, he slams the receiver back into the cradle. He looks up at the ceiling miserably, hugging the bulky landline phone where it sits in his lap.

“I’m never going to get laid,” Will laments. “Abigail? What about if I can convince him to not murder anybody else?”

Abigail is kind of incredulous about what’s happening right now. She hadn’t planned for any of this, and probably wouldn’t have said any of it if Will hadn’t started the conversation the way he did. 

“Will, listen to me.” He reluctantly turns his head and stares in the vicinity of her chin. “If the FBI searches his house, they’ll find nothing, as long as they don’t find the secret hatch into the basement. I’m not going to force you to bring our suspicions to anybody, okay? We don’t have any proof at all. Accusing him without proof might make him angry with us. Getting on his good side would probably be safer. If that’s the route you want to take, I won’t fight you. In fact, that’s definitely what we should do. We shouldn’t make any move against him without solid evidence. And we may never get that. So making nice might be the only way to survive.”

Will’s face is blank. “How do you know any of this, Abigail? No, don’t answer that. I’m imagining all of this.”

Abigail considers her options. Ultimately, she thinks, she’ll be better off with Will on her side. He _probably_ won’t think she’s actually crazy. Maybe?

“Please don’t think I’m crazy,” she requests. “Have you ever thought about the possibility of time travel? Or maybe alternate universes. Or, uh, living a life in a really long prophetic dream and waking up to find that none of it has happened yet and you can do things differently? Maybe?”

“I mean,” he starts, looking like he’s going to cry from frustration. “I’ve been a nerd my entire life. Of course I’ve _thought_ about it. Are you saying you’re a time traveler or something?”

“Something like that,” she agrees. “Thing is, Hannibal murdered me. So you see why my preference is to make sure he gets what’s coming to him.”

“Right. Okay. That’s not crazy at all. You know, normally my hallucinations involve things like dead people and feathered stags.”

“Look, I get it. I kind of liked him too, last time. He was teaching me how to speak French and Italian, and how to play harpsichord. The three of us were going to go live in Europe where I could go to college without anyone knowing I was the daughter of the Shrike. But then he got mad at you and slit my throat so you could watch me die. To punish you. So.”

Will’s face is horrified. 

—

“Abigail, were you here yesterday?” Will’s voice on the phone says he wants her to deny it.

“Why?” she hedges. 

“I…dreamed? I had a conversation. With you.”

“Oh? What was it about?”

“Abigail. Were you here yesterday? Was that conversation real?”

“Would you prefer that it not be real?”

“Does that mean it was real?”

“It might’ve been. Maybe you should think about what you hallucinated and consider that your subconscious might be telling you some things.”

“That’s extraordinarily unhelpful, Abigail. And suspicious.”

“You can call me Abby, if you want. You did yesterday.”

“So it was real. All of it?”

_Fuck it._ “If you mean the conversation in which I accused Dr. Lecter of being a serial killer and told you I’ve already lived through an alternative version of this timeline in which Dr. Lecter murdered me, then yes. That conversation was real.”

“What the— Goddamn it. You can’t just _say_ things like that _over the phone_.” He clearly did not want that answer.

“You’re the one who called.”

“Because I wanted to hear that it was just another encephalitis hallucination.”

“Sorry Will.”

A sigh. “Not your fault, Abby. Or maybe it is. Or maybe it isn’t because you’re having some delusions and mental illness isn’t your fault. ”

“Just…think about what we talked about, okay? It’s okay if you don’t believe me. But once you’re cured and thinking clearly, you can make your observations and empathize and come to your own conclusions.”

“Yeah. Okay. I’ll do some thinking, okay?”

“Sounds good,” she agrees. “Me too.”

—

Hannibal finds himself _unsure_ about his current status with the FBI. He is not accustomed to the feeling. 

It all started on his outing with the FBI, when he felt privileged to witness Will’s first time killing a man.

Abigail’s revelation of his phone calls had been inconvenient, and he’s had a feeling since then that his action that day might have damaged his reputation in the eyes of Will, Jack, and even Alana. None of them have explicitly said as much, and his ability to empathize with the feelings of others is imperfect. He is unable to determine whether or not his perception of their feelings is at all correct. It’s troubling. 

Will’s opinion of him is taken care of, with their budding romance. He sensed no deception during their interrupted tryst. He is confident that he can win Will’s affections and keep him by his side.

He will need to renew his friendship with Alana. He has grown lax, inviting her to dinner far less often than he once had. She wants to think well of him and he will ensure that she does.

He invites Jack Crawford for dinner weekly. Jack is perhaps the most likely to betray a friendship in favor of the rule of law. He will have to begin serving the man meat from his other butcher, lest the cannibalism connection be made and the man grow suspicious enough to keep samples of the food he serves. It will be a pity not to share his special cuts with Jack, but needs must.

If only they had continued to bring him in for cases after the first. The information gleaned from Will and Alana is interesting, but the inside look at the methods used by the FBI were what he found truly valuable.

Unfortunately, he feels hesitant to volunteer himself. That is something criminals do, volunteering to “help” the investigation. It is something law enforcement watches for. No. If he is to once again participate in cases, he will need to devise a way to encourage Jack to request his aid voluntarily.

But how?

—

Jack makes no effort to hide the anger and worry he feels. He is alone in his office, after all, unable to discuss this latest development with a hospitalized Will. Unable to trust the steadfastness of Alana’s commitment to _doing what needs to be done_ even when doing so is a betrayal of a dear friendship. Unwilling to elevate his suspicions to his superiors just yet, because what little he has _isn’t enough_ and trying to find anything more feels _wrong_. 

What little he has is potential circumstantial evidence that might be useful in building a case, but is not useful in establishing actual wrongdoing.

It all started with Hannibal’s damned phone calls to the Hobbs residence. His purpose in placing those calls was unknown, and the fact he placed them at all made him a suspect in the FBI’s search for a potential accomplice or admirer of Hobbs.

The girl checked out, unfortunately. Sure enough, after her questioning they had discovered a record of a call from her to the tip line months ago. Anonymous, but her voice was recognizable. “I think a man named Garret Jacob Hobbs is the one kidnapping those girls. He has a hunting cabin that he might be taking them to. Please come quick.”

The agent who had neglected to pass on that tip has been placed on unpaid leave and is under investigation. Yet another name to add to the list of suspected admirers who might have murdered Boyle. 

Jack had no choice but to investigate Hannibal. And some of what he has found so far, he doesn’t like. Not in regards to Hobbs’ actual victims. No, the man has alibis for most of the weekends the girls went missing. Operas, charity galas, psychiatry conferences - the man has a full calendar. 

He can’t say the same for the Cassie Boyle case. 

The period of time between Hannibal’s meeting with himself and Will, and the discovery of the body, had been fairly short. It would have been difficult for most people to travel to Minnesota, commit a murder, and return without being missed. Not so for people with near-unlimited means, however. 

Flying with a commercial carrier departing from a public airport necessarily added at minimum two hours to a person’s travel time. Flying commercially would, therefore, require around four and a half hours in each direction. If including the time required to travel to and away from the airports, at minimum five hours would be necessary. Probably closer to six on the Minnesota side, given the rural setting in which the body had been found.

After their meeting, the soonest flight from the DC metro area to Minnesota had left at eight that evening, landing two and a half hours later. The girl was killed less than two hours after that. Just getting from the public airport to the rural area ate up nearly an hour of that. _Not enough time_ , he tells himself. If commercial flight was Hannibal’s fastest option for travel, Jack would not still be considering him. Not Hannibal. The man took care of himself, but he can’t imagine him moving fast enough to pull that off. Maybe someone younger, but only maybe.

Jack looks in consternation at security camera footage on his computer screen. The image shows a man in a dark suit with light colored hair. In the video he is carrying a duffel bag, entering the doors of a private airport. His face can’t be seen clearly and the vehicle he arrived in is mostly off-camera, but the man moves in the self-assured manner Lecter has. And what can be seen of the car could be a Bentley.

The high-class private airport had not endeared themselves to their next-door neighbor. So, while the discreet airport would only part with any information at all if forced to by a warrant, their neighbor had no such qualms. The downside was the long distance between the subject and the camera.

The man had entered the airport only a few hours after Jack’s meeting with Hannibal and Will, and a chartered jet had departed shortly after his arrival. The registered flight path of the plane had it landing at another private airport in Minnesota a few hours later. The private airport was located in rural Minnesota, no surprise there. Many private airports tend to be suburban or rural. Contacts in the area had informed him that the airport was known to provide loaner cars for their clients. 

After landing, if the man was indeed their copycat, he would have had a leisurely ten hours to accomplish his tasks before boarding a return jet. The man in the dark suit exited the private Baltimore airport not long after sunrise the next morning. The timeline fit.

He would have had time to go home, get some sleep, have a decadent dinner, then return to Minnesota on a commercial flight per Jack’s own request to accompany Will on his searches of construction sites. 

It would have been almost easy.

Jack sighs. It’s nothing. What he has is next to nothing. A man in a dark suit who moves like Hannibal taking a private jet somewhere? He might as well be accusing half of Baltimore’s high society of being the copycat. Well, maybe a quarter, given the light hair. The only suspicious behaviors Hannibal had been caught up in were the weird phone calls, and maybe Hannibal really had just made an honest mistake. A potentially deadly mistake, but it _had_ been his first (and so far only) time on an investigation of any kind.

_I’m going to have to drop it,_ Jack thinks with some relief. _I’m not getting anywhere with this and I’m wasting FBI resources on an innocent man._ He is, above all, relieved that a man he considers to be upstanding appears to be in the clear. 

That thought gives him pause.

_Am I biased? Am I unable to look at this evidence objectively? Should I pass this up to my superiors after all, even though I don’t feel like this is enough evidence?_

_No_ , he decides. _My judgment is sound._

—

“Will,” Hannibal greets him with that polite smile of his. “It is wonderful to see you outside of the hospital.”

“It’s nice to be out,” Will agrees. “Thanks for the invitation.”

“You are welcome in my home anytime, Will. May I take your coat?”

Will is wearing a dark woolen pea coat acquired earlier in the day from a military surplus. He can’t enter mall stores without experiencing impostor syndrome, but he’d wanted a nice coat to wear to Hannibal’s. He figures a Navy pea coat is classic enough to look nice in an unremarkable sort of way. 

With a small smile, Will turns his back to the maybe-serial killer. He holds each arm out and finds that Hannibal’s warm hands feel nice as they brush against his neck and shoulders. The coat is carefully hung in the hall closet while Will turns back around and straightens the cuffs of a button-down shirt he’s had for only a year. It’s in better condition than his others. He might have to brave a clothing store if this becomes a regular occurrence. 

“You’re right on time,” Hannibal says with approval. 

“Didn’t want to be rude,” Will says with a small nod. For some reason, Hannibal stills for a moment, a rare blip in the mask - the costume - he uses to disguise his thoughts and emotions. “And I’ve been looking forward to this since you invited me.”

The other man relaxes minutely and his eyes crinkle. “I, too, have been anticipating our dinner together. Please, the dining room is this way.”

—

“To aid in your recovery, tonight we are dining on roasted grape-stuffed quail resting on a bed of kale, broccoli, squash, fennel, parsnip, and citrus with a pomegranate-rosemary sauce.”

“Wow. This looks and smells amazing,” Will says with complete honesty. _And nothing even potentially human, unless the pomegranate sauce is camouflaging some blood. Paranoia? Or honestly unwilling to serve me red meat during my recovery? Or…maybe Abigail is truly delusional._

“Please,” Hannibal says with a nod of his head towards Will’s plate. 

He carefully spears some of the quail meat and a bit of parsnip onto his fork, drags it through a drizzle of sauce, and places it on his tongue. Its sublime taste utterly unsurprising. “Delicious,” Will compliments after swallowing. “It tastes even better than it smells. Thank you.”

“It’s my genuine pleasure, Will.”

—

_Sorry Will,_ Abigail thinks as she clicks through the form on the FBI contact page. _Wish I could completely trust you. It’s better this way._

_Contact information? Decline, Decline, Decline, Decline, Decline… why isn’t there a box for “Anonymous”?_ she wonders. 

**What was the exact crime that occurred?**   
_Kidnapping of Miriam Lass and all of the Chesapeake Ripper murders._

(Best not mention Cassie Boyle. She’s already revealing too much information that might lead back to her.)

**When did the crime/incident occur?**   
_Ongoing - Miriam Lass is still being held captive. You already know when the murders happened._

**Where did the crime/incident occur?**   
_687 Bayshore Ave, Suite 200, Baltimore, MD (his office) and 5 Chandler Square, Baltimore, MD (his home). Also a house near Calvert Cliffs. It’s almost on the edge of the cliff because of erosion so you can see it from the water. It’s super modern looking with a roof that reminds me of a sail and huge floor-to-ceiling wall-to-wall windows. I don’t know the street name but the house number is 44. That’s where Miriam Lass is. To be clear, this location is where he stores a LARGE AMOUNT OF DRUGS both Rx and illegal so for the love of god use the War on Drugs to get a warrant if you need to._

**What specific details do you have to report about the crime/incident?**   
_Miriam Lass was investigating him during the Chesapeake Ripper investigation. She knew too much so he subdued her and has kept her drugged but alive ever since. I don’t have specific details about the murders._

**Do you know the subject’s name and/or approximate age?**   
_Hannibal Lecter, in his 50s I think._

**Do you know the subject’s phone number?**   
_Office is 443-555-0159 but I REALLY wouldn’t suggest you call first. And if you go question him on his own turf, bring a lot of people with a lot of guns and watch out for the scalpels he carries around._

**Do you know the subject’s address?**   
_Yes, the Chandler Square address is where he lives._

**How do you know the subject?**   
_Prefer not to say. Please don’t let him read any of this. He might recognize me and I’m legitimately afraid that he will kill me._

**Additional Information**   
_Be REAL careful what you tell Jack Crawford! Lecter is one of his best friends. Don’t forget to look for the hidden floor hatch into the basement. It’s in the kitchen pantry. That’s where the evidence is. There’s evidence in the cliff house too but the basement in Baltimore should have the most._

Abigail breathes in, holds it, and clicks _Submit_. She hopes the FBI will get off their asses and do their jobs. 

She hopes Will won’t be at Hannibal’s if and when they do. That could be very, very bad for Will’s continued survival.

She hopes the promises of the VPN will hold up and the FBI won’t track her down and ask her how she could possibly know about Miriam and the murder basement.

She hopes Will forgives her for keeping him out of this plan. Getting on Hannibal’s good side had seemed the safest option before she was finally allowed internet access, but with any luck he’ll never know it was her who made the report. She’d like to stay neutral in the eyes of both Will and Hannibal.

She hopes Will forgives her for ruining his love life or whatever. She could tell that he was getting pretty attached. _You’ll just have to find a boyfriend who isn’t a serial killer,_ she thinks. _Or you’ll have to enjoy his company as a visitor once he relocates to a nice cozy prison cell._

_Finally_ granted the privilege of a laptop with internet, she simply could not resist the opportunity to get what she wants. And the truth is that she wants Hannibal in prison more than anything else. Or Hannibal dead. Dead would work too.

—

Will stands at Hannibal’s side, armed with a pristine microfiber cloth. He insists on helping with the clean-up, and Hannibal is disinclined to argue the point, especially as it means that Will is close by his side. Hannibal’s right flank absorbs Will’s radiated warmth with greed. He gently massages a tiny drop of soap onto the piece of Waterford, iridescent bubbles shining and popping on the crystal surface, then washing away in a stream of clean water. Crystal looks beautiful when wet, the sparkle intensified by the halogen spotlights above his sink. Beaded water droplets fall off of the crystal’s surface as he hands it to Will.

Will carefully dries it with the microfiber towel. Hannibal may need to polish it properly later, but intimacy with Will is more important presently than achieving a perfectly sparkling goblet on the first attempt.

Hannibal stops the flow from the faucet and pats his hands dry on a clean linen dish towel. He watches as Will places the mostly-dry crystal on a towel on the counter, having left the interior of the bowl untouched as instructed. 

The more Hannibal examines Will, the more he appreciates the path he finds himself on. The process of shaping Will’s fevered mind through hypnotism and carefully calculated conversation would have been interesting work. Painstaking in the best way. But that path would have led to Will incarcerated and perhaps angry with Hannibal. The longer he knows Will, the less he likes the idea of Will ever becoming angry with him.

It’s better this way.

“That all?” Will wonders, noticing that Hannibal has traded washing dishes for watching Will. 

“Everything I prefer to wash by hand, yes. I will take care of the dishwasher later.”

“Hannibal, it’s no trouble—”

“There are better ways to spend our time together, do you not think?” Hannibal interrupts, his voice teasing. To emphasize his point, he reaches his hand to Will’s face, gently cradling his jaw. He can feel the strength of Will’s pulse where his fingers lay on Will’s neck. _Such a strong and vital man,_ Hannibal thinks. _In sickness he was beautiful. In health he is delectable._

Hannibal steps forward, leaving the smallest of spaces between his body and Will’s. Leaning forward, he can’t resist inhaling deeply. No aftershave, something he had noted when removing Will’s coat. Something he appreciates very much. Will’s natural scent is mouth-watering.

“Is this acceptable, Will? Please tell me if I overstep.”

Will’s posture is visibly tense and his voice is rough when he says “I’m fine. It’s okay. I mean—”

Hannibal closes the final distance between their mouths, trying his best to radiate calm as their lips meet so softly. He wants this. He wants Will to want this. He savors the warmth of the delicate skin. Inhales through his nose as Will exhales, taking Will’s very breath into his own being. 

He pulls back a calculated amount, and Will follows his lips, breath unsteady and hands grasping at air. There. He will remember wanting this. Hannibal’s behavior will not seem overly aggressive.

He surges forward more insistently, this time opening his mouth on Will’s and sucking delicately on his lower lip before meeting Will’s lips fully once again.

Finally, Will’s response seems to gain strength and purpose. He gasps, one hand grasping Hannibal’s crisp shirt over his belly, hard nails felt through the thin cloth. The other covering Hannibal’s own where it still rests at Will’s jaw, pressing down as if insisting that it stay. Hannibal agrees. His hand does belong there.

He licks into Will’s mouth, meeting his tongue fleetingly before applying more force. Will tastes of Hannibal’s cooking. Of the blackberries in the cobbler that he served for their dessert. He tastes faintly of mint toothpaste, as if he brushed his teeth shortly before arriving. Under it all, Hannibal drinks in the indefinable base layer unique to Will. 

He inhales Will’s moan when his hand at Will’s lower back pulls him firmly forward, bringing their pelvises together for the first time. 

Will reacts by pulling away from Hannibal’s mouth and latching onto his neck with a strong bite. Freeing the skin, Hannibal feels a series of kitten licks lapping - soothing - the mark. It’s quite charming, and arousing.

Hannibal’s voice is rougher and lower than he anticipated when he proposes a soft “Upstairs?” against Will’s ear. Will rewards him with another lick, before humming assent and stepping back, sweeping his hand towards the hall with a tiny smirk on his face.

“Please, lead the way.”

—

Abigail waits and hopes her tip to the FBI will bring results, though she does find herself skeptical. The FBI ignoring her tip about her father means that she doesn’t have a ton of faith in them, but enough to have hope for something different this time.

She tells Dr. Bloom what she wants to hear. She smiles and jokes with Will. She doesn’t leave the facility. Hasn’t since Will got out of the hospital. Hannibal is less likely to kill her while she is inside the facility.

She ingratiates herself with Hannibal when he visits, obediently eating the meals he brings for her, complimenting them exactly twice: after the first bite, and after the last. She’s eaten so many people by now that the cannibalism hardly matters. She doesn’t regurgitate the meat as evidence. There will be plenty of evidence in Hannibal’s basement, and she would rather not be found with a strange supply of human meat in her room.

She politely discusses with Hannibal the books she has been reading and her progress in therapy, and tries to keep up when he starts to make unnecessary philosophical references. She kind of hates philosophy.

She thinks Will believes her about Hannibal, but without evidence, there’s nothing he can do. He seems to be enjoying whatever romance he can squeeze out of the situation for now. With any luck, everything will come crashing down very soon. It is her hope that Will won’t be so attached that he’ll be devastated. 

But she has her priorities. 

A secondary priority was getting Will cured of encephalitis, and it was a success. 

The primary priority has been and always will be to have her revenge against Hannibal for murdering her. She doesn’t mind if that involves death or imprisonment, as long as he finds himself in no position to murder her again.

Maybe then she can go to college, perhaps on the west coast or in another country, far away from the colleges her dad hunted.

Maybe, just maybe, she can someday pretend at some sort of normal.

—

The SWAT team is hushed as they surround the modernist cliff-top home. Specially trained agents are checking the area for cameras, trip lines, explosives, or other defensive measures. The bomb-sniffing and drug-sniffing pups are happily sampling the air, ground, and any object they encounter without any sign of alerting. 

It isn’t long before they apply the no-knock warrant, ramming down the door when it is found to be locked.

The house is beautiful. High-end. The vacation home of someone very well-off. 

There are signs of habitation. Dishes in the drying rack, a half-full trash can. They clear the front spaces before moving into the bedrooms.

“Boss! You’ll want to see this!” a voice rings out. 

The team leader does not run, but he does hurry. He navigates into a tasteful bedroom but is taken aback to find a woman in a side chair, staring blankly forward. She doesn’t react to their presence in the room. “Damn,” the team leader whispers to himself. 

On the off-chance this mission wasn’t a bust, he’d hoped to find the captive in good condition. And that appears to be true, physically. Maybe her mental state is repairable. 

He shakes his head. Not his job. His job is to rescue the captive and deliver her to the FBI Quantico medical department, and leave some of his men to guard the premises until forensics can get their asses out here. 

—

Upon learning that the Miriam Lass captivity part of the tip was correct, the Special Agent in Charge fills in the last few details on paperwork requesting another two no-knock warrants and submits it to an incorruptible judge.

The SAC sends forensics to the location of captivity. The team she prefers to work with. A solid group who aren’t compromised by alcohol, sex, or ego. This is a huge, sensitive case that may have already been compromised by one of their own who became too friendly with the subject. They can’t afford any mistakes.

She presses a button and a call connects.

“Higgins, eyes out for any hidden hatches or compartments. Do whatever you need to establish whether or not there is a basement. Update me in an hour.”

“Understood, ma’am.”

The tip didn’t say anything about a basement at that location, but she is determined to leave no stone unturned.

—

One SWAT team enters and clears room after room of a certain address on Chandler Square. They zero in on the pantry and its hatch into the basement.

A second SWAT team quietly surrounds an office on Bayshore Avenue.

The subject is currently in the Bayshore office with a patient whose appointment will end in 45 minutes. Their intelligence is that this is the last patient of the day. The SWAT leader hopes that will be long enough for the Chandler team to find evidence to justify his team’s take down and arrest of the subject when he exits the office to travel home. 

They’ll take him down either way, of course. But having justification when taking down someone as rich and respected as this guy is can be a nice shield from finding yourself on unpaid leave pending investigation.

His pocket buzzes. They’re using cell phones this mission. Radio silence. Can’t know whether or not the subject has a scanner. A text from Sparrow: “IT’S A DEFINITE GO. GO GO GO WHEN FEASIBLE.”

Okay then. He briefly wonders what they found, but it’s not important. He has a job to do.

He sends texts to the leader of each van group. Time to leave the vehicles and move in discreetly. Except for his group. They are in front of Lecter’s office and will stay put until he has begun to walk to his vehicle.

His team wears anti-slash protection for their necks, wrists and knees in addition to their normal PPE. Apparently the tip mentioned a scalpel. This subject has been classified as highly dangerous and they’re taking no chances.

The patient exits, and they wait.

The doctor exits, and it’s a go.

—

Hannibal Lecter is read his rights as he is loaded into an ambulance, restrained and handcuffed to a gurney, surrounded by armed guards. He has been shot several times and is barely conscious. 

The paramedics glare and huff at the SWAT Agents as they try to keep the harmless-looking man alive. They don’t know anything about him. Just that some scary Agents decked out in heavy gear are not interested in any of their pleas for the man to be unrestrained.

They do their best as their requests go unheeded. The heart monitor emits a long, ominous tone. 

—

Will Graham sits behind his desk at the Academy, head braced on the palm of one hand, fingers massaging the hair over his temple. The pressure of his fingers barely sooths the headache he’s hoping won’t become painful enough to warrant a check-in with his neurologist. Relapse is a threat that will stay with him for the foreseeable future.

His students left an hour before, headed to their residences for a fun night of study and paper writing. He wonders what it’s like to attend the FBI Academy. He’d never had the opportunity, since the psychological evaluations were made before an applicant made it that far in the process.

He is pretending to assemble a new presentation, but is actually glancing at his phone every minute or so. It sits innocently next to his laptop, as if its inactivity isn’t torturing him. Hannibal isn’t answering any of his calls or texts. It’s very unlike him.

Will’s fears are flitting between several possibilities. 

One, Hannibal has been in an accident and is dead or severely injured.  
Two, Hannibal is in the process of murdering someone and can’t come to the phone right now.  
Three, Hannibal was found out somehow and has been arrested or killed.

He shakes his head at his own irrational fears and closes the screen of the laptop, grabbing his bag and depositing the computer into the appropriate compartment. He’ll just stop by Hannibal’s on his way home. He’s sure Hannibal is fine. 

Everything is fine. Everything will be just fine.

—

Jack Crawford cheerfully dons his overcoat and switches the lights off, finally grabbing his briefcase on his way out of his office. He’s been invited once again to dine with Doctor Lecter. Partaking in such excellent cuisine and conversation has become a highlight of each week, and he’s curious what might be on the menu tonight.

He’ll find out very soon.

—

“Alana Bloom?” a voice inquires over the phone sounding vaguely familiar.

“Yes? To whom am I speaking?”

“You are listed as one of Hannibal Lecter’s emergency contacts. Were you aware of this?”

Alana’s heart seems to stop, then start again at a sprint. “I wasn’t, but that’s fine. How is he? Where is he?”

“He is currently in surgery at Johns Hopkins. I’m afraid I don’t have clearance to provide details about his status, Ms. Bloom, but you should be aware that he is under guard, if you intend to visit.”

“Under guard.” _Guarded from whom?_

“I’m afraid I can’t provide any additional information, Ms. Bloom.”

“Thanks. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

_What in the hell happened to you, Hannibal?_ she wonders, panicked tears gathering in her eyes. Could he have been attacked by a previous patient who hasn’t been caught, yet, necessitating a guard?

Speculating won’t get her the answers she needs. She’ll need to talk to him, or if he’s unconscious, his guard.

—

“Will.”

“Jack.”

“What’s going on here?”

“Don’t know,” he admits. “They won’t tell me anything.”

They stare, for a moment, at the barricades cutting off Hannibal’s street from public access.

Jack huffs in disgust. “I’ll find out what’s going on. I’m going to be late for dinner with Hannibal.” His agitation is clear in the rhythmic clenching of his hands.

“You’ve heard from him?”

“This morning we confirmed. Why?”

“I’ve been trying to get in touch for a few hours. I have a bad feeling about this, Jack.”

—

SAC Melissa Wilson could never have hoped for the abundance of evidence found in Hannibal Lecter’s residence and the luxurious cliffside prison-of-sorts.

In addition to freezers full of meat and surgical and butchery tools, they had an actual eye witness. Lecter had been keeping someone alive in his own basement, apparently amputating parts of her when he needed the fresh meat. The poor woman was missing both of her legs, but she was otherwise healthy. 

She absolutely adored it when criminals kept damning evidence inside of their own homes. If Lecter survived surgery, this case was a slam dunk. If he didn’t survive surgery, society would have one less psychopath to worry about.

—

Alana cries.

Jack curses.

Will sighs in resignation.

Hannibal lives.

—

“How are you doing, Abby?”

“I’m so relieved. And vindicated. And…hopeful. I have a future. How are you doing?”

“I’m sad, I guess. And horrified at what they found. Relieved, kind of. The Chesapeake Ripper has been caught. That’s something. Just wish it hadn’t been him.” The shine in his eyes and scrunched eyebrows betray his deeper feelings. She would do her best to help him move on. He was a good man. 

“Yeah. I’m sorry, Will. I shouldn’t have encouraged you to get closer to him. Now you’re more sad than you would have been.”

“That wasn’t you, Abby. That was all me. Finding someone I was actually attracted to was too rare an occurrence to just ignore, even if I was pretty suspicious of him. I’m sorry I thought you were delusional.”

She shrugs, unconcerned. Her story was unbelievable. That he’d considered it at all made her grateful. “It’s understandable. Work giving you any trouble?”

“Not really. I’m just a teacher. Jack’s getting more scrutiny considering his position, the reports he didn’t send to his superiors, and their close friendship.” Abigail loves the hint of amusement curving his lips. Jack is an asshole, and she hasn’t forgotten the ways he’d made her life difficult before she faked her death.

“Do they know the two of you were…involved?”

“Yeah.” His mouth twists into a scowl. “Coming across as the naive boyfriend doesn’t make me look _great_ as a profiler, but considering everybody else who was taken in by him, poor unstable Will Graham being fooled by such a master of disguise is hardly surprising.” He rolls his eyes.

“Have you been to visit him?”

“No.” He clenches his jaw.

“Oh.”

“They’re calling me as a witness. I won’t see him until the trial.”

“You’ll…have to testify against him.” _Ouch_ , she thinks. “What will you say?”

“I’ll leave you out of it, Abby. Don’t worry.” Will’s eyes have filled with moisture. His rapid, shallow blinks try to dispel unshed tears. 

Abigail feels terrible. “Do you…I know you keep your distance from people, but do you need a hug?”

She is horrified to see his face crumple as he accepts and holds her closely, breathing shakily and sniffling. It seems to break a dam in Abigail, too, and she feels strong emotions for the first time since her return to life. Her tears are of sadness for Will, relief that Hannibal can’t hurt either of them anymore, and desperate hope for a better future for both of them.

“We’ll be okay, Will. I promise.”

His laugh is weak. “I should be the one telling you that.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes little sisters are smarter than big brothers.”

His laugh is a little stronger this time, as he pulls back and tries to dry his face with the palms of his hands, and then the sleeves of his flannel shirt. She does the same. The lack of tissues in her room is an oversight she hadn’t noticed until now. “Isn’t that the truth?” he says, fondly. 

“We’ll be okay,” she reiterates. “We’ll get you through the trial, and then we’ll go on vacation or something. How does that sound?”

“That sounds great, Abby. Where should we go?” His expression is soft, and maybe a little bit hopeful.

She shrugs. “Where can you afford? I don’t have any money,” she admits with a chuckle. “When I get out of here, I can get a job and help pay for it. Don’t know where I’ll live, though. Should probably figure that one out first.”

“Your mom?”

“Still not talking to me,” she admits. “She’ll probably go live with Great Aunt Marjorie or something. For now, I’m assuming I’m on my own.”

“You can have my upstairs,” he offers. “I sleep in the living room. You’d need a car though, to get from my house into civilization. I’m sure we could work it out.”

Abigail’s breath catches. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“Roomies,” she laughs. “That would be amazing. Thanks, Will.”

“It’s the least I can do, Abby. You probably saved our lives.”

She tilts her head, thinking. “I mean, you’re not wrong.”

His next laugh is joyful.

**Author's Note:**

> Abigail time traveling was mentioned in a prompt in the ACOC server, and I ran with it. <3


End file.
